Concrete Blinds

Post-windows in the industrial blank.
And robot militias that percolate.

This is the future, on photograph wings.
Sunlight like a cheap poem through concrete blinds.

Every human will be known by their mask.

Except for a few.

The ghosts of numerals for pocket change

Rattle like a few stone foxes in a giant’s purse.

Except for a few.

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